flowers, thoughts, carrying on

Time goes by so fast, the photos I wanted to share are already two months old. But I can walk you back through some springtime blossoms that are long gone now - it fits with the theme of life being fleeting, change inherent, and so forth. That’s all we’ve got. An indigenous woman I admire recently posted that sometimes “summoning up the energy to be positive and educational and shit is just beyond me.” When you’re looking at how things have gone down in the past, leading to what’s happening now, it often feels that way to me, too. Case in point: I dug around for my pretty flower photos, knowing they might just be escapist prettiness, and behold the field of Camas above. Which is a single acre of restored native prairie, salvaged from the entrance to a golf course. It used to be most of the land between this hill and the qatáy lagoon, qatáy being the name of the S’Klallam village that was located in what is now Port Townsend. (The lagoon and prairie are spelled Kah Tai in promotional literature - notably when you look up the qatáy spelling, you see that the village was burned in 1871. Even how we spell things changes the history that people see.) I read somewhere that much of the Willamette Valley in Oregon was also covered in this type of prairie, prior to colonization. Anyway, this is the Camas, a flower with edible bulb that was a staple of life for the people - and as Robin Wall Kimmerer notes in some of her essays, the foraging of the people encouraged the growth of the flowers, in a cycle of reciprocal sustenance.

The other pretty flowers came to me from a local farm’s weekly share. It was such a cold, wet spring that the vegetables were late, but the tulips just kept blooming, and we got them four weeks in a row. I had never really gotten the infatuation with tulips, seeing them pop up all tall and bright, then drop their petals. But this year, I actually went to the Skagit Valley tulip festival, since my mom was visiting, and we walked through staggering fields of tulips in bloom and whoa. Then the little bouquets in my home from the farm share showed me how tulips can look like silk, how they have depth and impossible symmetry, and now I’m full of respect.

I also got to pick the colors - purple tulips getting wild as they open

Tulips almost dancing in their bunch of five.

I’m otherwise immersed in Alexis Pauline Gumbs, reading her book Undrowned: Black Feminist Lessons from Marine Mammals, kind of on repeat. It’s the kind of thing you read, and you need to read it slow so you can feel it, and sometimes you need to read parts out loud to yourself or to friends. And then you need to read it again, and go back and find that thing. So I’ve been living with it for months now - but I’m not actually ready to share any excerpts or reflections. I will say that her Stardust and Salt program has also been a part of my life, a stimulation to engage in daily creative practice. Which I was sort of doing, but started a whole new thing thanks to the beautiful words and thoughts and encouragement and love emanating from this awe-inspiring woman. Wow.

Wool warp and weft, above my lap of linen

I also keep weaving, some cloth that will be cloth, that I can use to sew a garment, is the idea. Same yarn, warp and weft (unusual for me), from the deep ancestral stash of my friend Ann. It is weaving up soooo nicely, and I’m eager to see how it snugs up with a good wet finish. But I have many yards to go yet - I made a long warp this time. And I keep getting called outside by birds and green and tree friends.

Also retro - trilliums were in bloom back in early May.

Really just making an effort to be here with some content that is wholesome, loving, full of curiosity and respect, and possibly encouraging to others. On that note, I’ve got a Hafiz poem for you. And one more thing I’ve been doing is watching Lizzo’s Watch Out for the Big Grrrls. It’s related to all of this, believe it or not. What the beautiful Big Girls are giving me is joyful resistance, an assertion of life and love that does not look like what we're typically offered as the ideal. They're blasting open our indoctrination with every episode of the show, to assert the beauty of real, messy, confused, hopeful, determined, struggling people. The things they say to me about bodies and movement and dance and love are very similar to the poem below, and thus it intertwines, and I’m thankful.

(Poem by Daniel Ladinsky, in the guise of rendering Hafiz into English, but after reading this article, I won’t call it Hafiz… nevertheless beautiful.)

Because of Our Wisdom

In many parts of this world water is 

Scarce and precious.

People sometimes have to walk 

A great distance

Then carry heavy jugs upon their 

Heads.

Because of our wisdom, we will travel

Far for love.

All movement is a sign of 

Thirst.

Most speaking really says,

“I am hungry to know you.”

Every desire of your body is holy;

Every desire of your body is

Holy.

Dear one, 

Why wait until you are dying

To discover that divine 

Truth?

taking up space

I’m just going to start with the piece that was conceived for the space, as a way of introducing my art show, which has been up for some time, and has two more weekends before closing on May 1. The show is called Yarn, Cloth, and the Pull of the Earth, and it’s hanging at the PNW Quilt & Fiber Art Museum in La Conner, WA. It’s quite an experience to have a space that I can fill all by myself - an interesting, faceted, space, since it’s the third floor of a historic Victorian house.

One room of the show, on the upper floor of the museum, with me weaving by the far window.

The walls tilt inward, about 5’ from the floor, and this was actually perfect for what I wanted to do. Most of the pieces in the show involve two layers: a woven ‘ground’, hung against the wall, and suspended ‘lines’ of handspun yarn, which need to be higher and a few inches in front of the ground. Without this tilt in the wall, it would have been tricky to figure out, but the space had what I needed, so I could just hang the work. The colored cotton panels with bunches of wool in between make up the one piece that I made specifically for that wall, after visiting the space to scope it out. In this sense, “taking up space” means I used the space almost as a medium for the work, taking it up as one takes up a tool in the hand.

Handspun, handwoven cotton in natural brown and green.

The woven cotton is all handspun, essentially whatever I had ready to weave, supplemented with some new brown and green fiber from Vreseis and Traditions in Cloth. It’s all two-ply yarn, and I plied same colors together until I ran out, then some skeins were mixed, then I likewise wove until I ran out, so the color changes in the weavings happen by chance. They are interspersed with walnut-dyed wool, a gift from Devin Helman, spun rough with no prep and plied back on itself. In several of the pieces for this show, I’ve been exploring the expressive potential of strands of handspun yarn, the way they are like drawn lines or brushstrokes, handmade marks that have unpredictable voices of their own.

Coffee Lines - a handspun yarn based on the theme of coffee, hanging at the top of the stairwell before you enter the exhibit.

Handspun wool lines, with handwoven ground of walnut-dyed commercial 10/2 cotton.

Handspun wool lines (rescue sheep’s wool), handwoven ground of commercial warp, handspun Navajo Churro weft.

Taking up space is the real value of the show for me. Having this opportunity to fill two rooms with my work, my priorities, my ideas about what is important, and hoping to help others appreciate the wonder of yarn and cloth. The nicest moments have been just sitting in there, weaving in the light through the window.

Detail of weaving in progress, all cotton, at the museum.

A special day when I coordinated well with my weaving. Thanks to Dana Weir for the photo.

View from room 1 to room 2, through white lines. Cotton Strips on the right - more handspun cotton, in white and grey.

Caravan handspun, on ground of linen warp, handspun wool weft.

My Caravan yarn got to come out and play, hanging with a new woven ground. The pieces are all interacting with one another, creating something with their crosstalk.

I also included some microscopic images of fibers, taken when I was doing conservation study and using polarized light microscopy to identify fiber content. The images were so beautiful, I wanted them to be shown as artwork - and they emphasize the theme of looking closely. There is more I could say, but it has taken me long enough to post about this show, and I’d like to leave this here today.

about that string

A word about the string. Eine Saite, a string, is the title of this gathering place of  thoughts and images. It comes from a poem by Rilke, Am Rande der Nacht (On the Border of Night), which sets up the speaker, the person experiencing, as a string: 

Ich bin eine Saite,

über rauschende breite

Resonanzen gespannt.

 (I am a string, stretched over rumbling, broad resonances.)

The full poem and translation are posted in the about page. I recommend reading the German aloud, if you can come close to pronouncing it. The rhythms are wonderful.

RIlke loves a wide open space - field of Queen Anne’s Lace and big firs during the heavy snowstorm days.

It has appealed to me to have “A String” be the title of a website that is mostly about spinning, weaving, sewing, textiles. However, I’m feeling the need to admit what German speakers must already know - although have been too polite to bring up: the string in Rilke’s poem is a musical instrument string. The word in German would be different if he were talking about yarn, thread, spun fiber. Strings for instruments are usually made from sinew or metal - a different material entirely. So there you have it, I admit to knowing that the stretched string in the poem is not the same kind of string I have stretched across my studio for weaving.

Beginning of a walknut-dyed weaving. 10/2 cotton warp and weft, mill spun.

And yet. We are in the world of poetry, where meaning is specific and also deep, layered. Any string of any material can be stretched across rumbling, broad resonances. The strings of my warp contribute to the vibrations within a vast space (more so, if I’m weaving outside.)

Weaving linen outdoors last summer.

The poem culminates in the realization: 

Ich soll zilbern erzittern - I must silverly shiver! 

(My translation, my exclamation point) The person who is a string suddenly knows how to participate, how to create something that will cause “everything” to “live under me” - or as I interpret, to enliven in that space over which I am stretched. And this is another parallel - when my yarn is spun, and stretched, and woven, I silverly shiver. I choose my participation, that will resonate around me, through all the enlivened things. 

Handspun cotton catching the sunlight

This is elusive, but it has been deeply known to me since I first read the poem: that there is a way to be in the world, activating your own sound, evoking harmony, resonance, dance, light.

My writing slows as it becomes harder to make the words say what I understand from Rilke - but it’s there in the poem.

In Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows’ translation, they say:

A silver thread,

I reverberate:

then all that’s underneath me

comes to life.

My neighbor finds resonance in shaping found wood sculptures and suspending them.

I’ve been wanting to write about this for a long time, and about other things Rilke… so many unwritten Rilke thoughts! But especially lately, I’ve thought about poetry and translation and what words mean, because it’s important for subversion, for questioning what we’ve always been taught.

I learned about and ordered this book, an interpretation of the Therigatha, delving only slightly into the stir that it caused around the question of whether it could be called a ‘translation.’ (The current subtitle, “original poems inspired by…” is modified, post-stir.) Without going into my own reading of the original Pali text and various officially sanctioned translations, I will just say I’m more interested in finding out what a poem can do for you, how it cam make you feel and possibly change. (And this version of the poetry of enlightened women does more for me upon first reading than years of referring to the literal translations.)

And I also tend to think that anyone reading poetry, even in a native language, is engaged in translation to some extent, because we each bring our own history of understanding to all words, and we cannot say or know what a poet “means” with a certain word, apart from how it affects us. (Ooh, intent and impact… there’s another thick topic.)

I truly hope to bring more poetry here, alongside the weaving, since they are intertwined in my body and mind. This pulling of myself in the two directions, from words and intellect to hands and technique, makes me feel that they are two ends of the same string, and that all these meanings are present and vital, if not for Rilke then for me, through the intersection of his words and my life.

that soothing rattle

High on my favorite spindles list is one of several from Peru, a little one-ounce spindle with a captive ring. The loose ring makes a sound while the spindle spins, a rattle that gives the spindle its Quechua name. I’ve heard various theories on why the captive ring, from audible tracking of the spinner, to woodworkers’ showing off. But in wandering around my own neighborhood spinning, I’ve found another, somewhat enchanting role for this chattering sound.

A passel of Peruvian spindles, with the chac-chac on the left. At least a couple of these are constantly in use around (or outside) the house.

We have a lot of birds around my house. Really, concentrated near my house. I can walk for over a mile with my binoculars, and not need them until I’m back within 50 yards of my driveway, where all the birds hang out. During the winter, it’s mainly American Robins and Varied Thrushes, Chickadees (Black-capped and Chestnut-backed), and Kinglets (Golden-and Orange-crowned), with Spotted Towhees, Dark-eyed Juncos, Red-breasted Nuthatches, and Anna’s Hummingbirds year-round. So, I’m wandering around outside with my spindle. This has, I realize, become an essential spiritual practice during pandemic times: walking outside with my spindle. On most days when it’s not (as now) pouring down rain, I tend to get out there at least for a spell, and it helps.

Bare chac-chac spindle, with a low whorl by Allen Berry, wool dyed by Abstract Fibers.

Recently, I was wandering up the hill behind my house, where there is an unbuilt lot full of trees, a band of partial forest very popular with the juncos. They are usually flitting around there, dashing across the open space by the drive, chipping and chucking their rapid, abstract calls. On this day, I was able to mingle quite closely, moving very slowly and standing still for long stretches of time, but never ceasing to use my chac-chac spindle. It rattled along, renewed with each flick, and the birds were never disturbed. On the contrary, I believe (and this is not the first time I’ve had the thought) the spindle’s irregular purr actually allowed me to get closer to the birds without causing alarm.

Orange on orange - love when the spinning matches my clothing!

The gentle sound of wood against wood, natural but irregular, may be similar enough to bird calls to mesh with their soundscape. If I knew the kind of language that had beautifully rich single words to express whole phrases, I would name this spindle “soothing to the birds.” As I stood there spinning amidst juncos and towhees I thought, this is really what it’s all about. This is belonging. I realized in that moment that the work of my life is to learn not how to stand out, but how to blend in.

It has been fun to gather images of soothing-to-the-birds from the various times I’ve taken pictures over the last few years. Lately the spindles have mostly been working toward the weaving above and its future companions, with stripes of Navajo Churro, dark Coopworth, Manx Longthan, and madder & indigo dyed Corriedale. The spinning moves me closer to the weaving I wish to be doing, the people who have practiced before me, and now the birds who share this place with me.

(Sometimes I put my musings about spinning over here in the spinning blog, in case you’re looking for more.)

finishing, and other distractions

This tiny snail was on the stem of my CSA broccoli, and I remembered I have a camera with a good macro setting. So I was diverted by looking at the snail and taking lots of photos as it scooted around on the stem. I called this one Snail Side-eye. That shell! The delicacy was entrancing. The shell is only about 1/4” wide, maybe 5mm.

You know that thing I said last time about how once I’ve finished something, it already seems old? That may be one reason why it’s hard for me to get around to sharing Finished Object photos. The other is the distraction factor, because the thoughts and images that elbow their way to the front of the queue are never exactly what I thought I might intend to talk about. Witness, the tiny snail.
But anyway, this weaving is finished, except for the fringe/edge treatment. I’m still undecided on what I’m doing at each end, but here’s three panels, joined with figure 8 stitch. It has been incorporated into the textile array in the low seating area that we call the majlis, our couch, where I am currently ensconced among weavings and pillows.

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Bedouin style weaving, from handspun Navajo churro wool, 3 panels stitched together.

Now, I meant to include this next item with the petticoat details in the last post, because they are related. The Sarah-dippity skirt is, at long last, finished. The picture below is from nearly a year ago (this has been a long-running project). I tried it on when I had finished knitting the panels and put buttonholes in the last panel, whose shaping was made with short rows - and yeah, I could use some short row shaping finesse, but I decided what’s a little hem wonk among friends?

Backing up as I realize I may never have shared the in-progress bits, possibly because I was waiting until it was finished…..? Sigh. However, this is backstrap-woven fabric, begun in October 2019, 100% Harrisville Shetland wool yarn in a random stripey warp that was a bit of a circus act to wind, but satisfying to weave. I knit the intervening panels with the same yarn, using up the dark brown cone. I was sewing the panels together in February 2020, prior to knitting the final front piece. My waist-to-hip ratio required some more radical deductions in fitting the wedges to the straight pieces, which added to the delay in getting through that phase.

Shetland wool stripes in progress on backstrap loom, leather backstrap of unknown origin in foreground. Handmade bamboo reed in use.

Shetland wool striped fabric finished - about 8 x 100'“

What the skirt really needed, to be finished, was some elastic in the back half of the waistband, which I inserted in a sleeve of brown wool, a remnant from my lovely long skirt. And the buttons were pulling at the knitted fabric, so I wanted to add button bands. Another job for my new best friend, handwoven tape! I had some handspun tussah silk yarn in appropriate colors handy, and got to work. the cool thing is, being custom-made, the tape has woven-in buttonholes.

Hanspun tussah silk yarn, in natural, rust, and bronze.

I kept the skirt in my lap as I wove the buttonhole band, and buttoned each button as I went, so that the length between would be correct.

The skirt has already been recruited into use, but I don’t have fully-done photos yet. I’m sure you’ll see it underneath some weaving in progress eventually.
Meanwhile, how about some sleeve gussets? The next FO is actually a radical mending, or a reboot. A linen dress I’ve had for a very long time, love dearly, and never liked the fit of the sleeves. In sewing a linen shift, I learned a thing or two about gussets, and I wanted to apply that to this dress. But the sleeves were joined into the princess cut in such a way that merely adding gussets in the underarm was not enough. I had to cut the whole sleeve off and insert a wedge at the shoulder.

The linen dress on my work table, one sleeve reconfigured. The original sleeve is angled so low that anytime I raised my arms, it was too tight around the upper arm. Simply adding room below did not solve this problem - I had to reduce the angle from the shoulder, make it nearly straight out.

I’d been searching for linen of a harmonious color for these insertions, but my smart friend Ann suggested using a print fabric that shows right up, and carrying the insert all the way to the sleeve hem. Which sent me stash diving and gave me the joy of using more long-held fabrics to not only enhance function but jazz up this dress.

Whee, freedom of movement! I’ve worn it many a day since making this change. Seen here with a necklace made of weaving-enhanced driftwood, work of my friend Tininha.

It’s interesting to think about what counts as ‘finishing’ in my little textile world. I meant to show things that are done, wearable, no more work left until they need mending. But I realized that each plied ball of handspun yarn is also a small finished object. There are many stages of finishing, and the sense of accomplishment comes whenever I wind off a ball or a skein of yarn.

Four balls of handspun yarn, from top left cotton 2 strand plying ball, Corriedale plied, Coopworth 2 strand plying ball, Gnomespun dyed Gotland 2 strand plying ball. All of these have been plied since the photo - woot!

My life is filled with balls of yarn like this. And I never know what will strike me when sorting, or moving, or plying, or grouping them. As it happened, I went through the main ‘weaving yarn’ bin the other day, and found the Syrian silk in there. This stuff is heavy, in more ways than one. It has weight. Just holding three skeins’ worth was like a presence - I held them against my stomach, as if carried in the womb, and I remembered the market in Damascus. The Souq al Hamidiyyeh, a huge covered arcade of market stalls where I searched for the yarn shop a friend in Doha recommended.

I was there the end of February, 2011, only months before the rapid disintegration of what was then normal life for Syrians. It is sobering to think of these places now, and the yarn holds all of that.

Shelves of the yarn shop where I bought my silk, Souq al Hamidiyyeh, Damascus, Syria.

I wove some of this silk once before, along with some textured corespun yarn in the warp and an additional wool yarn in the weft. The resulting scarf was sold to a friend at an art fair in Doha.

Handspun yarn and Syrian silk scarf, modeled on the roof of my Doha apartment, 2011.

As I realized then, this silk (I call it silk, it may have some viscose in it, but they said it was silk, even when my Arabic speaking friend bought it,) needs something to stabilize it, something less slippery and lighter weight. It occurred to me to try weaving it with plain, white, handspun wool. This juxtaposition of flashy, shiny, bling yarn and earth-grown, undyed sheep’s wool parallels what I encountered in Arab culture. There is a deep history of pastoral connection to land, animals, and hand-worked materials, which coexists with a love of gold, sparkling jewels, and lush adornment. Very broad strokes here, but I could give examples if this post were not already getting lengthy. Suffice to say, this combination felt right, as an honoring of the yarn’s place of origin.

Syrian silk yarn and handspun CVM/Romeldale cross wool from Bellingham, WA.

I probably want to make something large-ish, as the yarn allows, but first I needed to sample my idea. I spent much of a day working up this sample, and I can’t even express how much I adore the fabric.

Sunlight on weaving in progress.

The sun was shining on this day, and I enjoyed the glint of sunlight on silk immensely, broken up with all the little dashes of wooliness.

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A small sample, a tiny little piece of fabric, but I love everything about it, the hand, the texture, the rhythm of bright and matte surfaces, and the way the light shines through.

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The rug in the background is also from Syria, bought on the same brief visit. Through my own weaving, my heart honors and hopes for the place and the people, that they (and we all) may thrive in some new form.

motley

I’ve come to accept that I always have a motley collection of intentions, a patchwork of projects, each inching along at its own pace.

Warp-faced strip of two handspun merino/bamboo/silk yarns who have long awaited being woven together to see what happens.

The slow pace can sometimes drain the excitement, so that by the time I share or finish something, it’s already old to me.

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Handspun cotton accumulating in the to-be-washed pile.

But maybe the slow pace is the excitement, or the importance of the thing.
Not rushing can be a subversive, significant act.

Linen shift stitching in progress - felling a seam.

Valuing flashes of brilliance over steady accumulation of skill and knowledge is part of the prevailing illness today —- why not glory in taking a long time to slowly make a thing?

Which I do. In several different directions, all at once.

Twisting some fine cordage from long leaves. Love the fineness, but the fingers get tired, and my joins need work.

Closeup of backstrap woven bath mat in progress, with weft of cotton t-shirt strips and carved Allen Berry sword beater.

I wanted to share an update on my 18th century-style petticoat skirt, mentioned at the end of this post. The fabric is so light that the skirt simply crawled up my legs when I walked in it, so something needed to be done. I thought of adding a handwoven hem band, probably getting the idea from Lao skirts and the separate hems they often add to the main skirt fabric. Looking at the photos, I realize now that even when a separate hem is not sewn on, the additional woven decoration at the bottom adds weight (as in the second photo below.)

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Lao tube skirt (pha sinh) - the ikat upper part is the main skirt, the brocade weaving below is a separately woven hem section.

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These pha sinh are woven in one piece, but the borders are decorated with supplementary (brocade) patterning.

One of my narrow woven wool bands looked good against the skirt fabric, but I wanted the hem band wider. So I scaled up the pattern using my handy Inkle Visualizer app, and wound a warp in the same colors, closer to 2”/5 cm wide. As often happens, I miscalculated length because I don’t have a good sense of takeup percentage (how much length is lost in the weaving), so I ended up with a nice hem band that was about a handspan and a half too short.

Backstrap-woven, handspun wool hem on petticoat.

What to do? Standing in my studio, the stacks of folded fabric catch the eye, and in my life “patchwork” is more than just a metaphor. The solution was obvious.

Patchwork fabric infill, at the back of the skirt hem where the woven band did not reach.

I actually padded the patchwork strip with batting, and put in some quilting stitches along the seams for strength, since the patchwork needed to be equal to warp-faced woven wool. Solving these little problems of durability, weight, and behavior in garments teaches so much about how and why people made clothes in various ways, throughout time and place!

And the tiny bit of quilting sparked something else, the memory of my love for that act, that set of skills and motions. As it happens, I had a fully assembled, partially quilted project handy to get back into the joy of hand quilting. This is a 20-year-old piece with its own story, which I will feature at another time. Suffice to say it has a theme of colonization, refugees, and war, which unfortunately never ceases to be relevant. Meanwhile, I also find it beautiful and highly evocative, with memories of Dharamsala, India, where it began.

Patchwork quilt in hoop and on the floor below, big basting stitches and quilting stitches shown in the hoop.

Hand quilting in progress, red thread on cotton and Tibetan silk fabric patches.

Even these photos are already a few months old, because I somehow got distracted from working on this, as well….. As I said, it’s a constant, swirling dance of discovery, my inching along with each project as the mood strikes. But the stitching here may have fed into the stitching on the linen shift, which is nearing completion. It’s all moving, deepening and spreading like water filling a dry, rutted patch of earth. Something will grow here, surely.

Self in linen shift, showing finished neckline and cuffs, in nice afternoon light.

weave on

As long as I have one, or two, or maybe more, weavings in progress, I feel secure in the knowledge that I have Something to Do. I can always put in a few rows or inches, especially if one of the projects is plain weave. I was happily, if slowly weaving along on the gold warp with a mishmash of weft yarns, destined to be several yards of 15” wide cloth for sewing, when another project suddenly took hold.

Double decker weaving. When you have one tie-up spot for larger pieces, they have to make way for one another. The gold warp is chained and secured at one point, so it can move side to side. I weave it while sitting in the rolling chair. The wool warp is secured on a loom bar, so it faces the tie-up (antique treadle sewing machine, that is) directly, and I sit on a cushion on the floor to weave it.

It all started with this Navajo churro fiber that Ameila G. was unloading before a big move. I happened to mention that I like that fiber, and a huge box came home with me. I spun the white and dark brown a few years ago, and the medium grey-brown just recently, a soothing pandemic spin. I had the skeins posed on my table to share a photo with my weaving friend.

Three shades of Navajo churro fiber, from the large stash I acquired thanks to Amelia Garripoli, spun and plied on my Louët S10 wheel.

Well, backing up, it all started when I had the idea to try to do a Bedouin-style weaving with the churro. Back in 2017, I started weaving the side panels - two strips that would mirror each other, with the patterning of al ‘ouerjan. The plan was to have a center strip with the shajarah supplementary warp technique, an improvised pickup which allows for the choice of dark or light color in each pattern warp in each shed. I’d learned the weaving methods while living in Doha, Qatar, through a combination of visiting Um Hamad, a Bedu/Qatari weaver in Souq Waqif, and consulting Joy Hilden’s book, which gave me the vocabulary to talk about the techniques with Um Hamad. I set up at home using my backstrap arrangement, rather than the ground loom or frame loom typical of Bedouin weavers, and while I wove a few practice pieces and made some projects with al ‘ouerjan, I only ever did the shajarah once, on a band which I later gave to Joy Hilden. So this idea for a larger weaving came from an urge to give “real” Bedouin weaving a try. What I mean by that is to use handspun wool of a heavy carpet weight, to do a warp-faced piece with multiple panels, and to use both types of supplementary warp technique. The pounds of churro fiber I had handy were just the thing.

In sending the photo to my friend, I then got out the side panels to show her what the yarn was for. And with everything sitting out and looking tantalizing, it was only a short step to winding a new warp. (This is why it’s important to have weaving friends.)

Brown and white wool side bands, and the three colors of yarn in the middle. Yeah, I can’t really figure out why the patterned bands are so different in these two, but I’m ignoring it. Symmetry is not my strong suit.

It had been so long (and had predated the sensible weaving notebook I now use) that I did not remember what length I had wound for the two warps. I decided, based on finished length, the most likely answer was “the full length of the table” - which is a standard unit of measure, at least in my studio.

Should I have put this behind a spoiler, for those who are made twitchy by the sight of a hectic warp? Sorry, this is my M.O. I wound in three bouts. I fixed tension issues in one set of white warps later, while getting set up on the loom bars. Joy’s book is open to some shajarah designs, to help me decide on the number of pattern warps to use.

For this supplementary warp technique, you wind one of each color held together for the full number of rounds equalling your desired pattern warps. I went for 30. Each shed thus gives all 30 warps, with the option to choose either dark or light for each one. Much improvisational freedom, with an emphasis on the smooth diagonal lines that are easy to achieve. The textiles I’ve seen seem to show a disregard for long floats on the backside, but I find myself designing in order to catch floats before they get too long. And as I wove, I realized this could explain the role of a certain type of framing I see in the pattern bands of Bedouin weavings. See Um Hamad’s work, below.

The very beginning - working out some kinks. A simple repeated hourglass pattern gives me a feel for the numbers and the pickup method, as I try to snug the warps closer together in the pattern section.

Um Hamad points out the patterns in a weaving. The rows of black diamonds seem to make boundary lines between designs, and would also serve to catch any long floats.

A weaving Um Hamad made in 2011, spinning and dyeing the yarn before weaving. Repeated rows of black diamonds again frame improvised sections of pickup.

The back of Um Hamad’s handspun piece, showing the floats in the shajarah section, and the bright orange, blue and red of the narrow stripes - dyed with packaged dyes from India, in a loosely plied skein. The yarn is plied tighter after dyeing.

Bedouin traditional looms have string heddles that are raised on props, with a shed stick behind them. The shed is opened in opposition to the raised heddles with a wide sword, or simply punched down, leaving the heddled warps raised. Raising my heddles with my hand and punching down the wool is a physically satisfying experience, getting me deeply involved with the wooly, three-dimensionality of my warp.

Heddles being raised, shed opening.

Having an improvisational design entices me to weave, with the promise of the unknown and the chance to experiment. This weaving has been a good place for me to settle during the past month.

More thorough explanation of Bedouin weaving as seen by me in Qatar, and lots of pretty pictures here.

Woven cloth with pickup design in the middle, grey stripes to either side, white borders that will join the white of the side panels. String heddles and shed stick behind. Heddled shed is open, design is picked up.

Souq Waqif rug arcade, Doha Qatar, 2011 Layered examples of different weaving styles.

learning: the many little missteps

I’ve been thinking about skill again, and how we develop skill not only through repetition, but by making mistakes. Not necessarily big, bad mistakes, but all those small misjudgments that need correction. This happens sometimes on a larger scale, and often in the moment, almost constantly, infinitesimally. While it helps to have someone point out the larger errors before we make them, the tiny ones are how we learn, and they are necessary steps to learning - they’re even joyful, because that’s when the mind suddenly sees the right way, the best option for here and now, or at least a better one. It’s the kind of learning that sticks because we’ve discovered it ourselves, we know it with the body.

I’m just going to meander through the things I’ve been doing, and see how these thoughts may apply. I’m also surely going to get distracted by the robins whooping it up in the madrona tree outside. The berries are ripe and red, and I’ve never seen such a robin party. I’m still not used to seeing them in the fall, anyway, having grown up in Missouri where they are a springtime bird. We have flocks and flocks of birds right now, as if trying to make up for the quiet of August and the eerie silence of the fire smoke weeks. Goldfinches, in their duller plumage, are still here in force, favoring the madrona across the way, but occasionally visiting my bird bath. You’ll have to take my word on the bird scene, because I don’t have equipment or skills for good bird photos, and backlit tress with indecipherable blobs in them would not be convincing.

Anyway here are the berries - madrona tree branches laden, no robins at the moment (they flee if I come this close, of course.)

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Same handwoven natural cotton tape, with wooden sword beater. Not handspun yarn. Woven with string heddles.

Handwoven tape!! This has grabbed me for real. I’ve been enthralled by the idea of it for some time, seeing both the Susan Faulkner Weaver book a friend owns, and another friends’ exploration of the Japanese manifestation, Sanada himo (Ravelry link). A few months ago, I got out the “knee heddle” that I own (because people give me weaving tools) and tried some tape weaving. I got quickly frustrated with this heddle, because not only is it unclear how many hands you’re supposed to have to open the shed, pass the weft, and beat, the distance between knees and waist is short enough (on me, at least), that the warps remain spread apart and it’s difficult to get a true warp-faced look. Which is fine if you don’t want that, but all the tape I’ve seen has it, and it’s what I want.

Wooden “knee heddle” with crochet cotton tape being woven in stripes of rust and grey, with blue down the middle. This image shows how the warps are closer together in one section, which I’d prefer for the whole length.

Handwoven crochet cotton tape, spooled on top of a navy blue T-shirt being converted to a skirt.

Any long woven band with integrity is a functional thing, and this worked nicely as a skirt drawstring. But I immediately warped for another, to be woven with string heddles in my more accustomed manner. Much more satisfying - and I did not like the crochet cotton either, so I chose a natural colored laceweight which lives in my weaving yarn bin for some reason. Very much better!

Warp-faced natural colored cotton band in progress, brown-green-brown lengthwise stripe, about 1/2 inch wide, held in the sun against my fingers (this was in May, when life was sunnier.)

This same cotton was also used in my current band, shown in the first two photos. I warped up 4 yards or so this time, because I aspire to the hefty bundles on the cover of that book. And with that much to weave, I can already see one reason why people may have preferred heddles: less abrasion. I still want to see a demonstration of this knee heddle thing- I can find only pictures of it and written explanations, and haven’t seen anyone showing how it’s done. I find it awkward, and ended up pushing it away beyond my knees, and letting it hang. In which case, a sweet little, small heddle would be much better.

Cover image of Susan Faulkner Weaver book Handwoven Tape, with my crochet cotton blue and white band on top. I was imitating the pattern third from left in the bundles shown.

At any rate, this warp-faced tape is a surprisingly deep rabbit hole, teaching me more than I expected very quickly. The one above, for example. While I’m still not convinced that the one in the picture has more than one dot in the center, and absolutely could not find a way to make that happen and still have symmetrical embracing wavy lines, we’ll leave that aside. Just to get those symmetrical lines, I had to discover that mirroring the pattern doesn’t just mean warping another blue round in the same position. No, look here. The lines are crooked, right? They jog right and left with each pick. and they all jog the same way. So the first one comes from winding a round of blue - it forms the left and right jog. But for the second one, we want the jog to move in the opposite way, so it has to be wound half white, half blue, then half blue, half white. I don’t expect this to make sense unless you’re either well-versed in warp-faced structure, or way beyond me in the logic department. I had to make use of Warp Visualizer’s oval chart to spell it out for myself. I’m the opposite of whatever logical mind it takes to grasp this kind of thing at a glance.

Anyway, moving on - that image on the cover is what really keeps me coming back to this book - those beautiful bundles! So much handwoven tape, in natural dye colors that look so reassuring and earthy. The second from left also wouldn’t let me go, with its two zig-zag lines of indigo. So I wound another warp, since I was conveniently located in an undisclosed location (not my home!) with a very large amount of available yarn.

Brown and blue warp-faced band, 5/2 cotton, weaving in progress with small rigid heddle. Short sample with different warp scheme, woven with string heddles.

And look! There was also a wee, handy heddle in this place, so I could try again to compare the rigid heddle experience, without the bulky knee heddle causing me frustration. The truth is, my habits are so ingrained that I heddled up with string and started weaving before I remembered that I meant to use the wooden heddle! But this was good, since I’d also noticed that I wasn’t getting the double zig-zag I intended. My zig-zag was happening in the middle, where two blues were right next to each other. Second thing I learned about warped in design for warp-faced bands! When I cut off the string-heddle bit, I was able to place the threads in the correct position in the rigid heddle to get the double zig-zag. So cool! So fun! So pleasing!

I may still favor the type of fabric I get with string heddles - the difference is clear in this instance, with the same yarn.

Double zig-zag band in progress, with small wooden rigid heddle, draped over my lap - and I’m wearing my new rust denim jumper, recently designed and sewn by me.

One thing leads to another, and an Instagram post of the blue and white band got the attention of Cassie Dickson (Instagram link - she’s also profiled nicely here.), who is a masterful weaver and flax whisperer. Seeing her handwoven flax and her tantalizing processing pictures reminded me of how much I want to get better at spinning flax for weaving. At this same location with all the yarn, there was also some well-aged flax which needed hackling, so I took it home to test it out and see how it compares to the varieties I have. It’s beautifully blond, and seems in fine shape, after hackling. Not long ago, I got the tip from Sharon Kallis, who was told by Karen Barnaby (more IG links), that spinning flax from the fold is a good way to go when using a spindle. This was revelatory, because it’s true, and it gave me a way to take my flax with me as I wander about, which is my preferred spinning method and gets a lot more spun than the stationary techniques.

Hackled flax, folded and tied, and spinning in progress on Ashford high whorl spindle.

My addition to this approach is to wrap a cloth around the flax, so it can be held in the hand without mussing it up as too much handling will do. This is a great use for some of my vintage ladies’ hankies, which are delicate and lovely and I never use them (I prefer a larger, less precious man’s style hankie for actual hankie needs.) But I have a sweet collection of beautifully hand-worked hankies, most of which came from my grandmother. Perfect chance to show one off below, which has been washed and pressed - different from the one in use with the flax.

Spindle with flax cop and flax fiber folded and tied into a hankie. Green plants and trees in background.

Vintage hankie detail. Whitework and cutwork embroidery and edging. not showing scale, but this is very fine work. The whole thing is only about 9” square.

Spinning flax is what made me think about learning and making small mistakes. I’m constantly making mental notes about what works and what doesn’t because I’m still getting to know this fiber. I learned, while spinning the largest of the three clumps shown above, that I should use smaller amounts at a time with this from-the-fold method. It has less chance to tangle and mat within the wrap of the cloth. I’m learning what’s too thin and what’s too thick, and how to join, and how wet I want my fingers…. and that this is a great choice for the rain/sun/rain weather we’re having, giving me lots of little drops of water to dip my fingers before drafting.

I hope to keep this up and compare some different types of flax, before getting distracted by something else, although there is a new warp going into the bamboo reed at the moment, and another on standby. And I also intend to keep increasing my bundles of handwoven tape. And of course, my wool spinning and weaving is always calling to me as well… the dance of learning is quite syncopated around here, but it continues.

Handwoven warp-faced wool with pickup designs, Navajo churro is the main color, bundles of cotton handwoven tape, a few skeins of handspun wool yarn, in a basket on top of a Turkish handwoven salt bag.

If my captions seem obvious, it’s because I was looking up the low vision accessibility of Squarespace, and saw that the captions of photos will appear as alt text image descriptions automatically. Trying to make sure this works for people. If anyone reading knows of other things I can do, I’m open to suggestions. I enlarged the main body text a while ago because it was hard for me to read, but the caption text remains very small. Some things are within my control, and some are not.

Slug’s eye view of me spinning on the trail the other day. Lots of sky, clouds, trees, me in a skirt made from a Lao handwoven sarong (sinh mukh kho) a handknit sweater, and spinning a little Turkish-style spindle made by Allen Berry.

Thank you for being with me, and keep doing those things that keep us real.

feet

Finally, I have another warp on the Katu loom - the foot-tensioned backstrap loom which I acquired and learned to use from Keo and Mone Jouymany in Luang Prabang, Laos. As with other backstrap “looms”, it is a collection of specialized sticks, but the way it is warped and operated is different enough from my standard backstrap weaving practice that I had to work up to it. This is the fourth time I have tried this type of weaving, and I can possibly say I see a little improvement in my handling of the loom and the circular warp.

Warping with two-stranded balls of fine cotton from the market in Luang Prabang

The circular warp is wound directly onto the loom bars, using a frame of 2 x 4’s. The string heddles are added as the warp is wound. Preparing the 2 x 4’s and setting this up were a necessary part of the process of incorporating this type of weaving into my life. Last time, I warped using a wooden ladder, which sort of worked.

I was thinking about how the foot-tensioned style of loom developed in areas where people are often barefoot, due to climate and culture (southern China and the peninsula to the south, and islands in the region such as Taiwan.) This barefoot life gives the feet enough habitual dexterity to work the loom. Going around in shoes all the time limits sensory awareness, as well as foot dexterity. And somehow Western civilization decided that less use of the feet equalled intellectual advancement - an odd equation. Even now, having foot and toe dexterity is something that startles adults in modern cultures - it is the reserve of small children, hippies, and indigenous people pre-contact. We no longer use the word ‘savages’, but the uneasiness with bare, wide, skilled feet persists.

Tim Ingold observes in his book Being Alive that European historical and philosophical separation of the upper and lower parts of the body, with the mind in the head and to some extent the hands, has led to shod feet which are mere mechanical extensions, best for marching, pumping, treadling. Which brings us back to modern loom development, and the increasing mechanization of what the legs do, keeping the focus of skill in the hands.

The typical, unskilled foot shown here, in my first attempt to use the Katu loom. The default for those of us who grow up wearing shoes is to brace with the feet, as if the loom bars are pedals. My toes don’t even know they’re supposed to be involved. (Ock Pop Tok Living Crafts Centre, Luang Prabang, 2013) You can see this stance in The Weaving Sisters’ students in their Instagram and Facebook photos. Mone and Keo do a great job of coaching awkward Western students through the use of their loom, but we all seem to start like this, with feet planted as if on the ground.

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Compare with Keo’s feet and toes, which are fully engaged in the work - not simply applying force, but holding, manipulating, and controlling the tension of the loom bars. In this video, you can see that her feet are continuously making micro-adjustments as she works, then completely changing position to loosen the tension when the heddled shed is opened. Her toes work separately to hold the bars in different ways. It’s so cool to watch!

I had originally been thinking only of the practical, climate-related realities of loom design. Backstrap and ground looms persist in cultures that spend more time outdoors, with foot-tensioned looms (necessitating bare feet) in the warmest of those regions. Meanwhile, Europeans in colder climates developed warp-weighted looms, usually found inside the remains of buildings in archaeological sites. Then of course it was in Europe that treadled machines took off: spinning wheels, floor looms, eventually sewing machines. Asian spinning wheels appeared earlier, but were turned by hand and used a driven spindle, as they still are in many places, such as in Kashmir for fine fibers, and Laos for cotton.

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Cotton spinning in Laos, using a hand-turned driven spindle wheel (and recruiting the foot to hold the wheel in place.) (Ock Pop Tok Living Crafts Centre, Luang Prabang, 2013)

The reason this matters to me is that I want to use my foot-tensioned Katu loom, so I’m keeping my feet bare as much as I can, and trying to move and exercise them in a way that restores some foot and toe dexterity. One of the points Ingold makes is that the habitually shod foot is not anatomically different from that of the lifelong barefoot person. They just develop differently based on constriction or freedom, lack of toe use or the reliance on toes for additional work. I’ve seen enough feet in India, Laos and Thailand to demonstrate the range of possibilities of foot shape based on lifestyle. And the way I’ve seen weavers not only in Laos but also Qatar recruit feet into the work shows a clearly different attitude from those of us stuck in shoes. The feet are accessible and available, and can be relied upon for assistance (shoes may be worn, but they’re easily and quickly removed, so that the transition to bare feet is not hampered).  Laverne had a nice post about working with feet a while back, which included some of my notes about Keo. Of course with the Katu weaving technique, feet are essential, and this is what drives the whole inquiry and physical effort on my part.

Getting my toes into the game. Slightly less awkward, fourth time around….

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You want to know about that gorgeous piece lying underneath my current weaving? Keo wove that, and I bought it soon after I first met her. We had a photo session with Mone, shown here. It’s usually draped over a table, but I’m using it to wrap my weaving when I roll it up - maybe it will add good vibes from my teachers. If you’re not familiar with Katu textiles, all those white bits are beads, embedded with the weft yarn. I’m still working on my basic weaving skills before attempting much beading. For more of these sisters’ amazing work, look for The Weaving Sisters on FB or IG (linked at the beginning of this post), or if you find yourself in Luang Prabang!

For now, I want to avoid the whole West vs. the rest trap, and simply think about how skill develops, how there is hope for anyone who uses the body assiduously, with trust. Somehow along the way many of us have been taught not to trust our bodies (thus, the buy-all-the-tools approach.) There’s a reluctance, in extra-traditional learning (by which I mean learning skills without, or outside of, a community of handed-down, traditional methods), to believe that the hands, feet, or whole body can change over time, can acquire skills as an adult. As adults, we tend to think “I can’t do that” is a true statement, case closed - whereas if a child says the same thing, we encourage her to keep trying, knowing that “can’t” may be temporary. It can be grown out of - but also grown into. Too often we are given a pass as adults, provided with excuses. And of course, we each have our own physical limitations, but functioning limbs and appendages can be trained to work in new ways. As I challenged myself to pick up a pencil with each foot, one after the other, I remembered Christy Brown, the artist featured in the movie My Left Foot, who drew, wrote, and painted with only the one working limb.

A woman spinning wool in Doha, Qatar (2011) uses her toes to hold a large distaff, freeing both hands to spin.

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Toes are good for holding Peruvian spindles while winding a plying ball, too.

The fascinating thing is that western man (and I do mean “man,” since that’s where this agenda is coming from,) would deliberately cripple himself and then call that the ideal form - this limited, narrow, pale and soft foot with useless toes. And yet this is just what western civilization does again and again - cut off options, and then declare that this limited, narrow way is the way, in fact it’s the pinnacle of achievement. Ok, I did not avoid the trap, and I’m stuck in an epic eyeroll, but when I’m done I’ll get back to flexing my toes and weaving on my foot-tensioned loom.

Since this is a circular warp, there is an unworked layer of warp threads underneath the working shed. This also means the tension of the warp has to be correct at the winding stage - something that still needs much work, in my case.

open studio

In contemplating what to offer his first grade students remotely, by husband pulled out my childhood copy of Frederick, which was my number one favorite book from the age of about four. And this is my favorite page of that book. Granted, the poem at the end is a bit insipid (sorry, Leo,) and I was never much impressed with it. But the idea, the role of Frederick as poet - as someone who noticed and listened and stored things that became invaluable to the hungry mice in winter - this was a powerful idea to me even when I was very young. And this page illustrates that idea best: the warmth and light generated by the calm, inspired words of the poet, causing the very stones to glow.

Throughout my life, the power of that notion has stayed with me, that artists are gathering, observing, collecting, and creating a storehouse that will come to the aid of people in times of need. The system of consumer capitalism would tell us differently, but I’ve never stopped believing that poets and artists are vital.

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Now, of course, I’m finding the truth of this confirmed, as I seek out and am fed by the warmth and beauty of words and images created, collected and shared by friends and fellow artists. It is essential nutrition right now.

~~~~~~~Erika Blumenfeld~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sarah Swett~~~~~~~~~~~ Thérèse Murdza~~~~~~~~~~ Jite Agbro~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything is disrupted, but the work of the artist is not much changed - our duties remain what they have been all along. And I want to beg my artist friends to stay faithful to your duties! Keep on with the work that makes you whole, and brings forth beauty and truth, because it is needed.

~~~~~~~ Helen MacDonald~~~~~~~~~ Camille Charnay ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Bryan Whitehead ~~~~~~~~~ Sharon Kallis~~~~~~~~

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Plainweave on the backstrap loom, with commercial cotton warp, handspun wool weft. Bamboo reed controlling the sett.

Especially while isolating, conditions are ideal for immersion and intimacy with our own universe of intent and exploration. Mine is focused on weaving right now, with backstrap projects multiplying, and study of both plainweave and Andean pickup in full swing.

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Loraypo pattern in handspun yarn. Continuing my Andean pickup education, and trying to memorize this pattern.

I had the realization today that my studio is now never locked. I only lock it when I’m getting in the car and going away somewhere and no one else is at home. So now, the studio is always open. That’s an excellent thing, and it’s time to make it sing for everyone, for the love of this world.

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Studio activities include making a new bamboo reed for weaving.

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Halfway done.

P.S. I finished the band from the last post. It is now covering and protecting my phone.

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Phone cover, woven with #10 crochet cotton. Pattern from Laverne Waddington’s Andean Pick up book.

spindle, bobbin, shuttle

I started out weaving this with a two-ply handspun, churro and Icelandic. But the sett is too close with this reed, and the weft did not show through enough and I didn’t like the result, so I tried the churro singles. It was still on my spindle, and I discovered that this particular spindle (from Allen Berry) is of a length and whorl shape that works perfectly as a shuttle. Convenient! And I like the look of this weft, so I just kept weaving with the spindle as shuttle. Allen, who also carved the beautiful yellow cedar sword/beater, mentioned that he’d heard of people using spindles as bobbins/shuttles before, and this rang a faint bell for me, too. I knew I’d definitely seen people winding a warp directly from full spindles, and I found the video: winding a warp directly from spindles, in Western Ladakh.

It does sound familiar, though, putting a spindle into a shuttle as bobbin…. maybe a quill spindle, for cotton…? I can’t remember where I saw or heard of that, but pipe up if you know anything.

At any rate, I’m enjoying having a plain weave project with the reed on the loom again, and this time I’ve wound the far end, so I can weave a longer length without dealing with the full weight of a 3+ yard warp between me and the loom bar. Seems to be going ok. I have tension issues, but what else is new?

The lovely Navajo Churro fiber I’m spinning. It was a gift from Amelia, who got it from someone else, so I can’t say much about the provenance. This (beautiful Peruvian) spindle does not work as a shuttle, so I have to wind it onto a bobbin, but using it allowed me to spin while weaving with the other spindle.

Otherwise, I’m working on the opposite end of the spectrum from plain weave - trying to wrap my mind around a pattern and technique that have been calling to me for years. It’s the typical Central Asian yurt band weaving, which Laverne has graciously explained in various tutorials, under the name of “simple warp floats” (simple because they float on one side only, the top.) I’ve had those pages, and this one, bookmarked and screen-shotted, and photos copied and printed since she started posting about it back in 2010. For some reason, the yurt bands have always grabbed me, and I knew I would have to figure it out someday. Yes, Laverne has explained it nicely and given plenty of ways for it to make sense - BUT, the actual translation of woven pattern to chart, especially with the Central Asian tendency to stipple the background, is really quite challenging. That final link, where Laverne made a wide piece with pickup in foreground and background, has just always thrilled me.

Sample with striped (plain weave) background.

Note that in the tutorials, the background remains striped, which is plain weave with no pickup. Doing pickup on the whole surface is another ball game, and a very different one from Andean pebble weave or complementary warp pickup. The designs look similar, especially on the front, but structurally they are a different technique, and the rules for composing patterns are not the same at all.

I found out how different, and what some of the rules were, while trying to chart a section of a yurt band pattern, based on a printed photo of an actual band belonging to Marilyn Romatka.

Warning: this could hurt your head….

Marilyn Romatka’s yurt band, about 13” wide by 15+ yards long.

I was still daunted by the wide yurt band patterns, but I really wanted to figure it out. Recently, circumstances came together that allowed me to sit down, look at Laverne’s images once more, and take on the pattern. I charted a quadrant of a symmetrical design, and started weaving a half-width to test it. So far, it’s working!

One repeat of the design. I took out a couple of rows to correct the vertical mirroring point, but now I think that’s figured out. Cascade Ultra Pima cotton yarn - it’s what I had handy.

I’m continuing to look at the yurt band photos and trying to understand more of the typical patterning, so that I can create border designs in narrower strips. Spending my morning on this kind of thing is deeply gratifying, in the way that finally being able to weave something one has admired for years can be. The next effort at this will be with handspun wool.

Trying to chart border patterns from this image and from Marilyn’s band….

The yarns I have in mind.

sakiori pictures and unrelated thoughts

Some unwonted, taught pride diverts us from our original intent,

which is to explore the neighborhood, view the landscape,

to discover at least where it is that we have been so startlingly set down, if we can’t learn why.

- Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

My sakiori (behind) with a traditional Japanese piece.

I read Annie Dillard and feel urgent, often. Her sense of duty is compelling, and it motivates me. But it motivates me to very minimal actions, since the imperative is, as I’ve mentioned before, to pay attention. To look, to see, to witness. In another passage, she writes of seeing a bird dive in free-fall before deftly landing on the grass: everyday, commonplace, and extraordinary. She concludes that “beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.”

So more often than not, her words compel me outdoors, as do Mary Oliver’s poems or Robin Wall Kimmerer’s essays on our participation in this world. Participating, as a seer, a person trying to have what Rilke called “the right eyes,” is a full-time occupation. Unless we get lazy and neglect our duties, which is easy to do. Easy to get pulled into online discussion or news, easy to binge-watch something as an escape from the arduous act of thinking. I try to increase the time away from such distractions (unless the online stuff is truly feeding a worthwhile train of thought, which happens.) I turn to Ursula LeGuin and her mother’s wonderful writings about Ishi, their tragically famous friend. I read David James Duncan and Robin Wall Kimmerer, Tim Ingold and Dr. Leticia Nieto. Most recently I read Elaine Pagels Why Religion?, a gift from my father-in-law who, as a Biblical scholar, has always been a fan.

They are all pointing down a similar road, leading away from colonialism and the old, destructive narratives that I somehow grew up with. I’ve been trying to dismantle that ideological box for a long time, and I keep finding new tools. But it is an uphill trek. For every sentence I manage to write here, there are countless thoughts and potential words swimming around, uncaught and fleeting. At any rate, I’m trying.

The sleying process. Reed is 8” wide, 22epi. (Ok, this photo was in the last post, but here it is again.)

My first project with the smaller bamboo reed that I made at home, on my own, is a sample of sakiori, a weaving made from torn up fabric. The weft is made of strips of kimono silk fabric. I’ve been preparing the strips for some time, and this is the warp I impulsively wound when I arrived home in December (last post.) It wove up quickly, and was finished in time to show friends in mid-January.

As with most of my weaving thus far, it is nothing more or less than an attempt to make a certain type of fabric, to see how it might be done with my backstrap loom situation. I’m pleased with the result, am interested to work with finer strips of fabric, and do not know what I will “do” with this piece at the moment.

Here’s the setup. Don’t be confused by the rolled up weaving on the floor beneath (extra sticks at the top of the photo.) This one has lease sticks, a fat shed stick, string heddles, two swords and a reed. I had to beat with the sword rather than the reed to get this packed nicely.

Need to work on tidying up that selvage, apparently… (actual Japanese weaving on left)

on not knowing much, continued

To clarify, because some may say that spinning and weaving with extremely fine, strong yarn is not about 'knowing' but rather the acquisition of skill: I see the acquisition of traditional skills as a way of knowing, and my own work shows me the extent to which I live and learn outside of any particular way. My efforts are self-motivated, not integral to my culture or the expectations of my community, and I have only for very brief moments learned from anyone in person.

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A lesson in Lao supplementary weft weaving at Ock Pop Tok, Luang Prabang.

So in this sense, I really know almost nothing, set against any given way of knowing. Because a way of knowing is an immersion, a living-through, an acquisition of technique that goes beyond technique to the understanding of how it fits in with one's role in life, to one's purpose as a human being. This is the ineffable quality one sees or senses in the master's work, the craftsperson who is so completely at home with the work that every stage of the process looks like fulfillment.

It is also the quality of a living textile making tradition, that each skill and facet of knowledge is essential and integral to the person and the community. It is a belonging, and the reason I'm talking about it is because I feel the lack and the longing for it in my own explorations. I have the freedom of the unattached. Not locked into any tradition or community, I can play the dilettante, exploring Bedouin ground loom weaving here, and Katu foot-tensioned weaving there, but I miss the sense of home, the grounded identity that comes with being a weaver in a weaving culture, and the connection of my community with my work.

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My Tibetan style pile weaving in progress, at the Tibetan Handicrafts Cooperative, McLeod Ganj.

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At work in Mc Leod Ganj, Dharamsala, India, 1994

The state of not knowing is quite welcome to me, because it means I am open to learn. The first time I sat down as a weaving student, in a Tibetan handicrafts cooperative workshop in McLeod Ganj above Dharamsala, India, my teacher and I had only a few words in common, in Hindi. I imitated the Tibetan way of looping a double strand of wool yarn around the metal bar and the cotton warp threads on the vertical loom, and she would watch me and periodically say, "Aisa nahi... Aisa," which means "Not like that.... Like this." Often I would feel the explanations rise to my mind, the reasons why I was doing it 'like that,' because I thought blah-blah-blah..... Since we couldn't speak, I could never explain, and it was just as well, because I was stripped of my American defensiveness and the wish to prove that I understood, and could only ever prove it by doing it right.

So when I experience the truth of how little I know, it means that I'm fit to learn, and it often means I'm actually faced with a teacher, in which case it is even more welcome. Acknowledging my own ignorance is a way of appreciating the wealth of knowledge carried by so many textile cultures, and it is this ignorance that motivates me. I don't weave and spin in order to keep creating something I know, but in order to keep learning about what I don't know. As long as I have the freedom that comes with technical ignorance and cultural homelessness, I should exercise that freedom by learning as much as I can, anywhere I can find it.

on not knowing much

Despite all the studying I've done of Andean pickup weaving, and my own attempts to learn it, I had never seen real Chinchero weaving in person, with the exception of the wee tanka ch'oro jakima strip sent to me by Laverne Waddington. Finally, at the Textile Society of America Symposium in Los Angeles, I found CTTC represented by ClothRoads, and could get my hands on pieces woven in Peru. This small bag is from Chinchero, and is being compared to my own recent weaving. It reminds me of the childish taunt "Shows what you know!"

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I say this with good humor, but it's decidedly humbling to see my best effort to date, made with handspun that I'm relatively proud of, next to the real deal. The S curve, or kutij, in the middle of the Chinchero piece, woven by Martha Quispe Huamán, is the same number of warps as the curves in mine. It's mind-boggling, really. Look at the size of the yarn ends, all 2-ply handspun.

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Mine look monstrous! And we're not even going to talk about the beautiful, intricate ñawi awapa border, which is simply par for the course in Chinchero weaving. I have not learned that yet - I'm still in backstrap pre-school.

So this shows what I know, and don't know. But there is freedom in not knowing. It means I can weave things like this:

Because there's no one to tell me I can't do it like that. Yarn spun from old clothing? Warped as singles and woven clamped to my kitchen counter? Why not!